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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25548838">Don't Speak</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/EasyTiga/pseuds/EasyTiga'>EasyTiga</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Wincest/J2 One shots [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Sex, Ass to Mouth, Blowjobs, Bottom Sam, Coming Untouched, M/M, Rimming, Top Dean, Top Dean Winchester/Bottom Sam Winchester, Wincest - Freeform, handjobs, helping hands, no talking</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 10:42:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,986</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25548838</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/EasyTiga/pseuds/EasyTiga</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They don't talk about it. </p><p>They don't say anything. </p><p>They never do.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Wincest/J2 One shots [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1686691</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>186</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Don't Speak</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Was thinking about this earlier and had to get it out.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Hey,” Sam greets Dean, not looking up from the laptop open in front of him over his long, long legs.</p><p>“Hey,” Dean parrots glumly, shucking out of his jacket.</p><p>Sam cuts his eyes to him then, taking in the dejected set to his shoulders, the lines of frustration creating grooves along his forehead and adding a couple of years to his eyes. Twitchy, thick fingers. Rigid hips that he could swear start creaking as Dean makes his way over to the fridge. Sam listens to the clinking of two bottles knocking together, coming into view when Dean comes back through the open door, screwing the cap off his first before uncapping the next one.</p><p>He hands Sam one of them wordlessly while taking a sip of his own, throat slow rising and falling with each pull, a half-satisfied <em>ahh </em>escaping him at the end, eyes somewhere else.</p><p>“You okay?” Sam asks, debating whether or not he should close the lid and offer his full attention. The more eagerness he shows, the less chance he has of Dean revealing whatever caused the chip on his shoulder, so he chooses to remain nonplussed.</p><p>Dean side-eyes him mid-fourth-sip, blinking intermittently, a question in his gaze as he flops down onto the couch, neck arcing over the back.</p><p>It’s quiet for a while, only the sound of the tap-tap-tap of keys giving credence to life existing inside the room. And then Sam hears it, the unmistakable metallic <em>click </em>of a belt popping open, clacking and shifting, leather pulling through loops. He hears the pop, the squeal of a zipper going down but he doesn’t cast his eyes to it.</p><p>Not yet.</p><p>They’re not supposed to talk when this happens. They’re not supposed to shed light on it, unearth it or give it a name. They’re just supposed to be, exist in the moment quietly, push it as far into the back of their minds and seal it up under lock and key for the foreseeable future, never to be unboxed again.</p><p>Sam shifts the laptop off his lap, the light flickering from it deemed unimportant as he settles in between the spread of Dean’s legs. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look at Dean, and his brother returns the favour, slipping his hard, leaking cock out of his jeans and holding it steady at the base.</p><p>There are no sounds, no words of encouragement, not even harsh breathing. If they talk it shatters the illusion. If they moan it puts a name to it that they don’t dare speak. So instead, Dean grits his teeth and stares at anything but Sam’s lips sealing around him, swallowing him whole without much effort, and Sam tightens his lips and tongue, drags them back hard and fast, keeps the wet sound breaking through the gaps to a minimum.</p><p>He sucks and sucks, hollowing his cheeks, curls his fingers into the bunched lines on his jeans, knowing Dean’s balling his own fists by his sides, jaw so tight it’s probably going to break but neither of them will move to release the tension. Sam keeps going, tasting the salty tang of pre-come oozing in his mouth, the fresh musk of <em>man </em>and <em>Dean </em>and <em>cock </em>heavy in his nostrils and propped up like a banquet for his tongue.</p><p>Nothing ever changes. They just are. Here in the moment, Sam sucking Dean’s cock like it’s his job to do it. His one job, fitting his lips and tongue to every groove because he knows them all too well. He’s done this too many times that he’s lost count. Knows where to apply the pressure, how long to keep Dean trapped in the back of his throat, how much attention to pay to the oh-so-sensitive crown.</p><p>Teeth grazing the tender flesh, lips billowing out and slip-sliding, tip of his tongue curling against the underside. Dean’s cock throbs, twitches, transmits that it’s almost time to shoot, Sam’s eyes catching his balls drawing up, pulling taut, straining.</p><p>He feels it then, the thick, hot pulses of cum coating the back of his throat, his tongue, teeth and gums, tonsils flaring up. Sam swallows it all, swallows and swallows until Dean’s cock goes limp, slipping from him, a light <em>tap </em>on the material of his shirt.</p><p>Dean tucks himself into his jeans, redoes his belt, grabs his beer and takes a long pull and Sam goes back to his laptop.</p><p>Over an hour later, Dean speaks.</p><p>He says, “Thanks, Sammy.”</p><p>===</p><p>Sam’s annoyed. With himself, with Dean. The whole situation.</p><p>“You fell for her sob story, Sam. It’s not like this is the first time, ya’ big softy,” Dean says from the left queen bed as he pulls off his boots. “Don’t let it get to you, man. It’ll only make it worse, is all ‘m sayin’.”</p><p>“I’m not letting it get to me,” Sam denies, hand on the door to the bathroom, to privacy. “I thought there was… Y’know. And, I’m—nevermind.”</p><p>Dean eyes him suspiciously, takes in his haggard appearance, zeroes in on the stiffness between his legs. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for Dean’s hand to cup over his groin, his other one deftly working his jeans open, sliding them down past his ass.</p><p>They don’t speak. They never do.</p><p>The hand cupping him dives into his boxers and curls around his cock, pumping him fast and deliberate. Sam’s head thuds on the door, legs spreading, for what, he doesn’t know. He registers the spit-soaked finger at his hole, stroking, dipping and prodding, not pressing in.</p><p>Another few seconds and the hand around him is slick with enough precome to initiate a fast, wet back and forth that has Sam’s toes curling into his boots, bottom lip trapped between his teeth. His muscles relax, his body opens, letting Dean’s finger push in, far enough for his finger to crook. It pushes up, jabs hard and determined and Sam thrusts his ass back onto it, burying it to the hilt.</p><p>The dual stimulation is too much, too soon, Sam’s neck straining as he cants, bucks and comes hard over Dean’s shirt. Dean doesn’t say anything. He moves Sam’s hand off the door, goes inside to grab a cloth, wets it, comes back out, cleans Sam off, tucks him back into his jeans and then returns to the bed.</p><p>Anger drains out of him. Sam stills, the frustration from before a distant memory, his body light and free, able to breathe again. He takes in a lungful of air and goes through the open bathroom door, peeking his head out before closing it to say, “Thanks, Dean.”</p><p>===</p><p>Dean’s staring at him. He stopped the car off the side of the road a few minutes ago, and he won’t stop staring at him. There’s heat in his eyes, a question—request he won’t dare utter. Sam understands it. He knows what he’s waiting for, the silent acceptance from him, the doing without needing to be told.</p><p>So he does. He gets out of the car without a word, moves around to the rear seats, throwing the door open, pressing his hands into the give of the leather, waiting for that sound. That sound of Dean’s door creaking shut.</p><p>It does, the noise echoing in his ears, the crunch of gravel making his heart thud against his ribcage. He feels hands come around his waist, unbelt, unfasten, unzip him, skilled fingers peeling his jeans and boxers back until his bare ass is on display for the trees flanking them.</p><p>Sam says nothing when he feels warm moist breath ghost over his hole. He doesn’t flinch when a searing hot tongue lathes over him, getting him wet and ready with fingers. They don’t have lube on them. It’ll have to be this way. But Sam’s okay with that. He’s done this enough times that he can take it.</p><p>Dean spends a few minutes licking him open. Thick, sure fingers stretch him out, tensing inside him, curling, twisting, rippling like waves on a vast ocean until it’s nothing but smooth sailings.</p><p>The first breach always stings. He takes it on the chin, breathes in and out, feels the hands on his hips burning into his skin as heavy balls <em>slap-slap-slap </em>his ass vigorously, controlled pants in the air, curling up and over like a misty cloud with the added frost flirting with the breeze.</p><p>They do this the least, but enough for Sam to be accustomed to it. He thinks Dean feels guilty for doing this to him. Sam doesn’t mind. He likes it, loves it even, though he’s not sure why.</p><p>Pressure builds inside him, intense, unrelenting. His cock throbs between his legs, jumping up and down as Dean pounds away at him. Getting faster. Faster and harder until Sam’s head is resting on the seat, back arched, ass popping out, hips aching from the vice grip of Dean’s fingers.</p><p>Harsh, brutal smacks echo through the night. Sam sings with them internally, outwardly keeping his noises in, keeping them all at bay. If he makes a sound, it becomes something it’s not. Something neither of them wants to acknowledge, to see, hear, think, feel—they just have to be.</p><p>Dean’s grip gets tighter still, legs nudging his out further, hands moving up, flattening over the small of his back, changing the angle. Dean’s thrusting down, pushing him further and further to the seats, knees wanting to buckle under the pressure but he holds on.</p><p>Sam holds on because that’s all he can do, snatching a strip of leather between his teeth, riding out the hard thrusts, deep plunges, toe-curling gyrations that make him forget the day, time, year—he just holds on, holds on to anything he can grasp onto, clenching around the weight inside him almost viciously.</p><p>He’s dragged out then, twisted, pushed back, jeans ripped from his body after his shoes fly off in the distance. Dean’s back inside him, bending Sam’s legs up to his shoulders, arms winding around his neck, fingers pinching the skin of his nape, dirty blonde hair brushing his chin as Dean fucks down, in, out, all about, around in circles, stealing every breath, every thought from Sam’s mind and narrowing it down to the sensation of Dean’s long, thick cock stretching him wide, turning his insides out with each drag back, rearranging him—breaking him apart.</p><p>They don’t talk. Sam’s not even sure he’s breathing, honing in on the <em>pat-pat-pat-patpatpatpatpatpat </em>emitting from Dean’s chest, heavy in Sam’s ears, his own heart responding as Dean slow grinds into him, pressing, pressing so hard Sam’s back burns from the friction, the force moving him further and further</p><p>Dean’s flat over him, lazy, slow circles of his hips, arms curling tighter, almost choking him, Sam’s face smothered by a creamy, pale chest, heart pulsing over his nose. Dean’s body convulses, muscles pulling and straining, heat radiating off him in waves as he fucks in sharp, staggered snaps of his hips that makes Sam’s vision blackout, fading in and out of consciousness.</p><p>Then Dean’s coming, squeezing him so hard he thinks his head is about to explode, his own cock twitching and throbbing, pumping out a burning hot load between their bodies. The material of their clothes marred by the evidence of his arousal.</p><p>Dean untangles them, doesn’t look at Sam as he leans back up and out of the car, tucking himself back in his jeans, hiking them up over his ass and resecuring his belt. Sam’s bone-tired, boneless in general, unable to lift a finger.</p><p>So Dean does it for him, pulls him back towards the edge of the seat, grabs his jeans off the side of the road. His shoes, too. Gets him dressed again, no words exchanged.</p><p>===</p><p>When they’re back home, showered and eating something for supper, Dean says, “Thanks, Sam. I really needed that.”</p><p>And this time, Sam replies, “Me too.”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you liked it, please let me know what you liked about it. I'm thinking about posting some short things from time to time when I'm inspired between works. Kind of why I made this series in the first place. Feel free to message me if you have a request, though. I'm happy to do those as well! :D And we can talk about it at length to really get across what it is that you're looking for, as that would be my main focus, making your fantasy a somewhat reality. :D </p><p>https://twitter.com/TigaEasy</p><p>You can message me here. My DMs are always open. :&gt;</p></blockquote></div></div>
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